Gentlemen Can't Dance
by Candaru
Summary: College student Hershel Layton has the miraculous luck of taking Claire to the Fall Formal, the not-so-miraculous luck of having two left feet, and the... questionable luck of having Randall Ascot decide to teach him how to dance. (No slash, rated T for safety, some Rangela and Layclaire but mostly Randall-Hershel brotp fluff) (Cover to be added)
1. Chapter 1

(A/N: A few quick disclaimers!

-Originally posted on AO3 for the 2018 Layton Big Bang

-This is mostly a brotp fic between college-age Randall and Hershel

-There is some Rangela and Layclaire to fit with canon

-There is also some platonic Angela and Hershel/college trio stuff

-PLEASE do not leave any shipping comments about any of the platonic content! Ty!

-I have a lot of mixed feelings about Randall. I loved his younger self to the DEATH, and he could've easily been one of my favorite characters if it weren't for the fact that his adult self went and wasted all the brilliant potential he had for character development.

-On that note, I actually really strongly dislike canon Randall/Rangela/ect. Therefore, my Randall— while I don't want to call him OOC— is more of what I feel his character could've been instead of just what he was.

-Chapter one is pretty short, the others get longer.

I'll let you get on to the fic, then!)

* * *

"This was a mistake, this was a mistake, this was a mistake…"

On the green lawn outside the mostly-deserted Gressenheller campus, a very nervous-looking boy with a red vest and noticeably poofy hair paced in circles around the flowerbed. To the side, a redhead with a bright fashion statement of an orange bandana and purple jacket looked on in amusement.

"Hershel, if there's one puzzle in this world that I could never hope to solve, it's you. She said yes, you dolt."

Hershel stopped his pacing and looked up in a mix of anxiety and annoyance.

"I know she said yes, that's the problem. I'm not ready for this, I'm— I'm going to make a fool of myself. Maybe I should just cancel…"

The redhead gasped and put a hand over his heart in surprise as his friend began to pace again. "Cancel? You, Hershel Layton, cancel on a lady? I never thought I'd see the day…"

"No, I suppose you're right," Hershel sighed. "That wouldn't be polite or fair to Claire, but— still. Do you remember the wedding incident? When we were, oh, maybe ten or twelve years old?"

"Oh, you mean that farce of a wedding with old Mrs. Cratchet? I do remember that. I'd say we livened that dull evening up for everybody." There was a dangerous grin on the teen's face.

"No, Randall! That was a bad thing! That did not go well!"

"All right, all right. But you do have to admit it was fun," Randall insisted.

"It was not fun, and anyway, the point is that I can't dance. You remember that." Hershel sat down on the wall of the flowerbed and put his hands in his head with a sigh. "What was I even thinking? Inviting a lady to the Fall Formal knowing full well that I wouldn't be able to give her the evening she deserves. Not to mention making a fool of myself."

"You're doing that thing where you're beginning to repeat yourself," Randall noted as he sat next to his friend. He slung an arm around his shoulder. "But listen here. While you may have wasted the past couple years of your life, I've been learning the important things."

"Like archeology?" Hershel asked, rolling his eyes.

"Yes, like archeology. And how to dance." Randall gave a triumphant grin.

Hershel paused. "You know, as much as that wouldn't really surprise me, I have a feeling that whatever kind of dancing you might've learned without my knowing isn't the kind of dancing that will be expected at the Formal."

Randall seemed to actually consider that point for a moment, but then laughed and shook his head. "Hersh, you worry too much. I know for a fact that I'll be a master formal dancer by the time the dance comes around."

"Well, good for you," Hershel sighed, "but I really don't see how this helps me."

"Isn't it obvious?" Randall asked with a grin. "I'm going to teach you."

There was a pause as Hershel tried to ascertain whether his friend was joking or not. When Randall didn't burst out into laughter or make some snide comment as a follow-up, the poofy-haired boy groaned.

"Oh, yes, taking dancing lessons from someone who's still learning themselves is one of your best plans yet," he said, with a rare edge of sarcasm that was pretty much reserved for his best friend.

"I'm offended in your lack of faith in me," Randall gasped. He pushed up his fake glasses with his hand stretched across his mouth in a thinking position ("the scholarly way") and hummed in thought. After a few moments, he snapped his fingers.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "Meet me at Memory Knoll tomorrow night. It'll be the perfect practice spot; nobody will bother us."

"Tomorrow night?!" Hershel asked. "Are you quite certain you'll be qualified in that span of time, not only to properly formal dance, but to teach somebody else?"

"Well, I'll only have to know one dance to start with," Randall pointed out. "It's a matter of time management. But we'd best start as soon as possible, because the dance is only a couple weeks away. Now," he stood up and hopped off the ledge, taking on an authoritative tone that Hershel knew meant all argument was now futile, "tomorrow night, meet me at Memory Knoll at about… oh, nine o' clock should be fine, my father will be in bed by then. Come dressed as you are, although of course we'll have to get you a suit for the dance before it actually comes so you have time to practice in it. I'll be dancing the girl's part, obviously, since you need to practice as a guy, and—"

"Okay, I get it," Hershel sighed, throwing his hands up in surrender. "I'll meet you tomorrow night."

Randall beamed. "Good! I'm glad we're on the same page. And you're welcome in advance." He patted him on the shoulder and took off running. "See you tomorrow!"

"Wait, where are you going?" Hershel called in confusion.

"To practice! Duh!" Randall called back, and disappeared around the bend. Hershel sighed. Randall's plans almost always went wrong in one way or another.

And he had a feeling this was going to be no exception.


	2. Chapter 2

"Randall."

"Yes?"

" _What_ are you wearing."

The statement was a comment, not a question. In the midst of the lush green hill, two spots of color stuck out like sore thumbs. One was Hershel's trademark red vest, and the other…

"Did you speak to Angela before picking out a _solid pink_ suit to wear to the Formal?"

Randall laughed at the question and leaned against the solitary tree at the top of the hill. "Of course! Well, sort of. I asked what color dress she was wearing so I could match. She said pink. So, now we match!"

It took Hershel several minutes before he could come up with a gentlemanly way of expressing his distaste for the outfit. "…wouldn't a colored tie have been enough? Don't you think this is, well, a bit much?"

Randall raised an eyebrow and looked down at himself. Then he smirked and struck a pose against the tree. "Nope! Why? Jealous?"

"Not really," Hershel chuckled. "If I were you, I wouldn't even be wearing that just for practice; I'd be too nervous about getting it dirty. But I suppose it's your choice. Anyhow, if we're going to practice dancing we'd better start so we can both get home in time to sleep tonight."

"Right then! I've decided we'll start by learning the waltz, since it goes so slow. The first thing you have to learn to do is the box step, which is what all the other moves are added to." Randall took a step in front of his friend, smoothing back his hair. "I'll demonstrate slowly and you try to follow my lead in sync. The box step is easy because all you're doing is mimicking stepping on the corners of a box— like this."

Hershel watched uneasily as his friend trod gently in a square on the grass, muttering "down, up, up" under his breath for whatever reason as he did so.

"See, it's easy," he commented, breaking his muttering. "You just start with your left foot and your right foot follows."

"Um… what about the chanting?" Hershel asked.

"Oh, the 'down, up, up?' On the first step you take, you lower your body, and on the next two you raise it. Like I'm doing. See?" He sped up his movement slightly, although he didn't seem to be aware of it.

"I… I think so…"

"Great! Now try doing it by mirroring me. Ready, start!"

"Wait, I'm not— okay—" Hershel tried awkwardly to pick up the steps and move in sync with Randall, but the latter was moving in an easy pattern while the former was still having to think about every next move. "Randall, slow down. I can't keep up with you."

Randall complied with the request, albeit with some apparent annoyance, and straightened his suit as he danced. "See, look, it's simple. Step forward, step sideways, close, step back, sideways again, and close. Then you just repeat."

"Randall, please, _slow down,"_ Hershel begged, watching his own feet. "And what does 'close' mean?"

"I'm going as slow as I can, and it means what it sounds like. You open a gap in your legs and close it."

"So you go backwards?"

"No!" Randall groaned and turned around, acting out his explanation. "You move one foot to the side, then close it with the other. You're literally just stepping sideways."

"Oh. Okay. So which direction do you go?" Hershel asked.

"Both ways. It depends on what part of the box you're at. Just try to remember you're going in a box. Like this." Randall once again demonstrated the move. "Okay, try it and I'll watch you."

"Um— all right." Hershel nodded awkwardly. "Forward— side—"

"That's the wrong way."

"I thought you said it didn't matter!"

"No, I said it depended on what part of the box you were on. Just— whatever, try it again, and step the other the other way this time."

Hershel bit his lip and retried the step slowly. "Forward— side— backward—"

"You don't close when you're going backward," Randall noted. "You just move the forward foot back to the starting point, and then move the backward foot over to it. It's less steps that way."

"I have no idea what that means," Hershel sighed.

"Seriously? This is just the base for the dancing! This is supposed to be the easy part! The _hard_ part is adding all the other moves later on, like the spins and turns and stuff," Randall said with an edge of frustration.

"I _know._ I told you, I'm no good at this. I can't dance." The teen sighed again and looked up at the starry sky. "I'm never going to learn this in time."

Randall took a deep breath. "Okay, we're off to a rough start, but it's fine. After all, not everyone can be as naturally talented as me." He nudged his friend, who smirked slightly.

"Anyway," the redhead continued, clearly trying to be optimistic, "maybe it'll be easier with a partner. Here, I'll play the girl part— going backwards, that is— but I'll lead, just for now."

"All right," Hershel agreed. "Now how do we—"

"Like this," Randall said, abruptly clasping Hershel's hand in his own and placing his other hand just below his friend's shoulder. "Now put your other hand on my shoulder blade— yes, just like that. There, that's a traditional dance hold."

"Which foot do I start with again?" Hershel asked.

"Left. You'll have to do this yourself by the time the Formal comes, but for now just follow my lead," Randall explained as he pulled his friend backwards into the box step.

As it turned out, it was _not_ easier dancing with a partner. For one, the two gentlemen kept stepping on each other's feet, and for another, Hershel at his fastest still couldn't keep up with Randall at his slowest.

"You're thinking too much about what step you're going to take next," Randall scolded. "Just go with the flow of the pattern and you'll be fine!"

"I'm _trying_ to _remember_ the pattern," Hershel defended.

"You won't have time to remember the pattern on the dance floor, especially not while you're distracted." Randall sighed and pulled his friend to the right as he tried to go left.

"Distracted? By what?"

Randall rolled his eyes. "Your _lady,_ of course!"

"I'd say your bright pink suit more than substitutes for a lady, as far as distractions go," Hershel teased with a slight smile. Randall smirked.

"Whatever. Just remember that _I'm_ going to be the one tearing up the dance floor with Angela."

"If she doesn't cancel the moment she lays eyes on you."

"Hey!"

The dancing (if it could even be called that) fell apart as the two boys dissolved into snickers, ribbing each other while Randall tried to get the slightly taller boy in a headlock. Perhaps progress was being made more slowly than expected, but at least, Hershel thought, it _was_ being made.

…probably.

* * *

(A/N: Randall is DEFINITELY that friend who can't keep his hands to himself and has no shame about it and I love that about him)


	3. Chapter 3

"No suit this time?" Hershel asked as he walked up to the top of Memory Knoll. Randall was sitting criss-cross on the grass with his arms folded. Hershel took a seat beside him.

"My father noticed a spot of dirt on the back," the now-normally-dressed boy explained with a pouty expression. "At first he thought it was Henry's fault, but luckily I convinced him that it must've gotten dirty when we first took it home and I briefly dropped it on the lawn. Still, I can't afford raising any more suspicion."

"Ah," Hershel said. "Speaking of which, how is Henry? Does he know about this plan of yours to sneak out every night?"

"Of course! He's agreed to report to me every night to let me know when Father's fallen asleep. A good chum, he is. Has his priorities straight. _And_ he never complains about going on expeditions with me." Randall winked and stood up, extending a hand to his friend. "Well then, shall we begin?"

"As long as you don't keep me up as late as you did last night," Hershel said, letting Randall pull him up.

"Eleven o' clock is _not_ late. And it was nice and warm, too, especially for this time of year. You have nothing to complain about." Randall forcibly adjusted Hershel's stance as if he were a mannequin while they debated.

"I'll give that the lack of wind helped the temperature, but my point was that I didn't get enough sleep. I quite nearly forgot to add the actual tea to my tea, and with how tired I was I probably would've drank a whole cup of plain boiling water before noticing."

"Blimey, how early do you normally go to bed?"

Hershel paused, considering this. "Maybe nine-thirty or so? But I often turn in early."

Randall clucked his tongue. "First of all, I don't think you can blame losing two and a half hours of sleep for something so drastic as that. And second of all— Hershel, you need to get a _life!"_

"Well, what do _you_ do late at night? Study old, broken pots by candlelight?"

Pulling his friend into an attempt at a box step, Randall stuck out his tongue. "I try to teach my hopelessly uncoordinated friend how to dance."

The banter was cut short as Hershel turned his focus to trying to keep in time with Randall, who had spent the entire previous night trying to teach the most basic step of the waltz. The boys weren't even spinning or moving about the hill, but the young Hershel Layton still managed to find a plethora of ways to mess up— stepping to the wrong side, using the wrong foot, and even starting by going backwards instead of forwards while attempting to mirror Randall.

"You waltz too slow," Randall complained.

"The waltz is a slow dance!"

"Not THIS slow. This is like a turtle swimming through a bowl of syrup with weights tied to its ankles."

"…the speed at which you come up with analogies like those makes me wonder about you sometimes, Randall."

" _I_ just happen to have a quick mind. Like a horse bred for racing in one of those big cities where people bet money on which horse will win, and I'm the one everyone always bets on."

"Well, if you were a racehorse I'd bet on someone other than you just to deflate your ego a bit."

"If I were a racehorse, you wouldn't be able to bet at all because _you'd_ be a turtle," Randall retorted.

Silence fell once again, and the next hour or so continued to follow this pattern. Several minutes of quiet, terrible dancing, followed by some snide remark on Randall's side, followed by more terrible dancing became the usual pattern. Whether all of the practice was actually helping or not was… debatable.

"Are you quite certain this is actually going to work?" Hershel finally asked with a worried expression.

"It's only been two days. And unpleasant as this practicing might be, I'm determined to make you a dancer yet," Randall replied with confidence.

"Well, I know better than to try to stop you when you're determined," the red-vested boy laughed nervously. "Meet you tomorrow at the same spot, then?"

"Of course! And if your parents try to stop you, just explain you're doing it for the sake of a lady. Knowing them, that'll make them understand."

"Ah, don't even make me think about Claire right now," Hershel sighed. "She doesn't deserve to be disappointed like this. I don't even know why I asked her— actually, no, I take that back. I completely blame you for making me ask her."

Randall laughed. "I'll take that blame willingly. You were _never_ going to work up the courage without a bit of motivation."

"Blackmail doesn't count as motivation," Hershel said flatly.

"Whatever. It'll all turn out in the end. You'll see." Randall adjusted his glasses with a confident smirk as the boys started heading down the hill.

"I hope so," Hershel mumbled under his breath. "I sure hope so."

* * *

"I'm done! I give up!"

"You aren't done until I say so! Come on, Hersh, it's only been a week!"

In the broad sunlight on a class-free afternoon, Hershel tugged desperately away from his best friend, who was forcibly clinging to his wrist to prevent him from escaping.

"Please, just— calm _down,_ good heavens, it's not that bad. Stop trying to run off!"

Hershel shot his friend an angry look and used his free hand to try to remove Randall's hand from his wrist. "We've been practicing _every day,_ even during the daytime now, and it still isn't enough! I can't learn any of these fancy moves, and I _still_ mess up the base step, and there's not that much time left before the Formal!"

"You can't get better without practice," Randall stated in annoyance. "If you would just shut your trap and pay more attention—" Suddenly, he paused. "Hersh, are you crying?"

The red-vested boy blinked back tears and shook his head defiantly. A rare look of discomfort washed over Randall; Hershel Layton didn't cry often, _especially_ not in public. Unfortunately, that meant that when he _did_ cry, it was incredibly difficult to get him to stop.

"Just— calm down, okay, I'm sorry for what I said— just calm down, please—" He loosened his grip on his friend's wrist and put a hand on his shoulder instead. "Don't cry, Hersh, it's going to be fine…"

"Hershel? Are you okay?!"

Randall and Hershel both made a sound of alarm as a third voice entered the vicinity, but Randall breathed a sigh of relief as he turned around to see a worried blonde girl climbing up the hill.

"Angela!"

"A-Angela!" Hershel waved a greeting and attempted to steady his voice. "It's good to see you."

"I should say so," Angela said with a frown as she approached the boys. She gave Randall a quick peck on the cheek and turned towards Hershel. "I wanted to ask if you two would like to spend the afternoon together and thought I might find you here, but when I got here it looked like you were fighting. Is Randall giving you trouble again?"

"I'm trying to help him!" Randall cut in defensively. "I've been teaching him how to dance before the Fall Formal comes, but he's no good at it, and he wants to give up, but—"

"Oh, no wonder," Angela said with a sigh. "Hershel, how long has Randall been teaching you?"

"About a week," Hershel said, wiping his eyes. Angela's presence seemed to calm him immensely.

"The trouble I pull you two out of…" the girl muttered, giving a disapproving look to both boys. "Randall, surely it occurred to you that you would be a terrible teacher for Hershel?"

Randall put a hand to his chest. "What do you mean? You've been out dancing with me, haven't you, Angie? You've seen me in motion."

"Of course, dear, you're a very good _dancer,"_ Angela sighed. "But a terrible teacher, I'm afraid. Especially for poor Hershel."

"To be fair, he _was_ trying to help," Hershel mumbled quietly.

"Yes, and good on you for that," Angela noted to her boyfriend. "But you ought to know by now that your best friend learns things differently than you do. He needs someone _gentle_ and _patient,_ of which you are neither."

"We've been doing this for a week and he still messes up the waltz box step!" Randall exclaimed.

Angela frowned. "Wait, you two were trying to _waltz?_ You do know that's a slow dance, right?"

" _Thank_ you," Hershel sighed.

The blonde shook her head. "Randall, if you really want to be able to help your friend, sit down and watch me." Randall pouted, but did as he was told. "Good. Now, Hershel, has Randall at least taught you proper stance?"

"Yes, but— um, are you going to try to teach me? Because I warn you, there's a high chance I may step on your toes…"

"Don't worry," Angela said, in the kind voice she always used to calm Randall down when he was fired up over an expedition. "We're not going to start by dancing in partners. We're going to start slowly."

"Even if we did that, I just don't know that I have the necessary coordination for dancing," Hershel sighed. Angela shook her head.

"Nonsense. I've seen you fence with Randall; that's much more difficult than dancing, as far as feats of balance go. The only difference is, in fencing, you learned from an actual teacher before partnering up with my hopeless boyfriend."

"I… hadn't considered that," Hershel admitted.

"No offense, but are you going to actually practice or are you just going to stand around talking all day?" Randall asked from his seat on the grass.

"And that is a perfect example of why you shouldn't be the teacher," Angela giggled. "Okay, let's do this one step at a time— literally. To begin a box step, you move your left foot forward, like so." She demonstrated, and Hershel followed. "Good. Now keep that foot where it is, and move your right foot forward and to the side."

"You're supposed to be on the balls of your feet, not standing flat," Randall pointed out.

"Later, Randall. We're going _one_ step at a time. Now, move your left foot to the side of your right foot. Just like that! Let's do that part a few times so you'll remember it."

"This is _literally_ one part of one step of one move," Randall groaned. "You don't need to rehearse it."

" _Randall,"_ Angela warned.

"Fine, fine, I'll be quiet."

The next hour crept by slowly. Hershel was mostly silent as Angela taught and Randall complained about the pace which she taught at, but internally he was grateful. This wasn't the first time that Angela had stepped in as a mediator between him and his best friend, and her teaching _was_ a lot easier to follow than Randall's. Plus the fact that she didn't get upset when he messed up; she simply went back and retaught the step slowly.

"Good!" Angela praised. "Would you like to try it in partners now?"

"I think so, yes."

 _*Phweeeeeeet!*_

Angela and Hershel turned to Randall, who had a blade of grass between his lips and was furiously trying to blow on it.

"It's been an ETERNITY, Angela," Randall stated, spitting the grass whistle out.

"And now Hershel is confident in the box step, not only standing still, but moving in a circle as he'll have to for the Formal. Why are you so upset at this turn of events?"

Randall growled something under his breath.

"Randall," Hershel sighed, knowing his friend, "just because Angela is a better teacher than you doesn't make _you_ any worse for the wear. You don't have to be the best at everything."

The redhead paused. Then, in an unusually quiet tone for him, he muttered, "I… I just wanted to be able to help you."

"Oh, Randall…" Angela said softly. She walked over and sat next to the teen, putting an arm around him. "It's sweet that you wanted to help your friend. In fact, I'm proud of you. If you hadn't dragged Hershel up here, I never would've been able to help." She smiled at him and chuckled softly. "You can still take credit for this, okay?"

Randall paused, then smiled back. "Yeah… yeah, you're right, Angie. I still set this whole thing up." Then he turned and grinned to Hershel. "Hersh, you'd better be a good student for Angie, because you know she deserves the best."

Hershel laughed and nodded in affirmation.

"Well then," Randall said, standing up, "I think I'm going to go down to the bakery."

"Oh?" Angela said, cocking her head. "Are you not going to stay and watch?"

"You move too slowly for me," Randall replied, "but I'll bring back pastries for the both of you. My treat."

"A-Are you quite certain?!" Hershel exclaimed.

"Oh, stop that," Randall said, rolling his eyes, "you always act so surprised when I buy you things. Heaven knows it's no burden for me; what good is money unless you spend it? I'll be back in a jiffy. Probably before you two have even started on the next move."

"Thank you, Randall," Angela called as he sped down the hill. Then she smiled and turned back to Hershel. "Now, back to practice. You said Randall taught you proper stance? Good, yes, stand like that. Now you put your arm on the lady's back, like so…"

* * *

(A/N: a fun and interesting fact about me is that I would die for Hershel and Angela's wonderful and pure friendship that was actually canonically spotlighted and treated like a valuable thing without having even a scrap of romance to it)

(Also, dear Level 5: why would you have Randall turn into a completely self-absorbed jerk who doesn't give a single thought about the wellbeing of his friends when we were only a few cutscenes away from him being a rich boy who always buys presents and has self-worth issues and likes to hold hands with his friends… we could've had it all…)


	4. Chapter 4

"Breathe in… breathe out… don't panic…" Hershel mumbled to himself.

The Gressenheller committee had really gone-all in their decorations. Hershel thought they would've saved some more of the budget for the Winter Formal, which was bigger and usually had a higher attendance anyway— but apparently not. This year, silk banners of yellow and orange adorned the walls, and colorful paper leaves were scattered around the edges of the event hall. Bags of chips and bowls of punch (which Hershel knew to avoid) were arranged atop brown tables, and an impressive number of fake pumpkins framed a photoshoot area in the corner.

On top of all the decor, there was already a larger turnout than Hershel had expected— so while the room looked spectacular, mobs of fall-colored dresses and suits of black and white made it difficult to find any one person in particular. The number of colors whizzing past coupled with the constant stream of chatter _and_ the obviously-sprayed scents of pumpkin spice were a bit overwhelming, even for Hershel, who normally didn't mind a jovial social gathering now and again (although he had to admit that perhaps his nerves were probably the real culprit of the butterflies in his stomach).

"Hershel? There you are!"

Almost yelping in alarm (which would have been horrifying), young Hershel spun around to find the object of his search right in front of him.

He froze up.

Claire— ever so beautiful Claire— was beaming up at him, a smile on her face that practically made the entire room glow. A simple but elegant, off-the-shoulder dress fit her comfortably, colored like the wine Hershel's mother was so fond of and cut right at the knee. Her hair, red undertones brought out by the dress, was done up in a high ponytail that curled as it fell. She wore no accessories, but her eyes glittered like black diamonds.

Then she giggled slightly.

"Hershel, have you forgotten how to talk? I do hope you remember before the evening is over, otherwise this dance will be dreadfully boring." Without skipping a beat, she grabbed the sleeve of his tuxedo (he'd opted for plain black and white) and started to pull him over to the dance floor.

"Wh-what?" Hershel managed to squeak out. He silently reprimanded himself that those were his first words of the night to the most beautiful lady he'd ever seen.

"We're dancing, silly! This is a dance, after all. And look, perfect timing." She grinned. "The music is just starting."

In fact, the music was starting. And Hershel was quietly panicking, and Claire was stronger than she looked.

Thankfully, a familiar voice kept the pair from actually making it onto the dance floor, at least for the moment.

"Hersh, Claire!"

Both students turned to see a blindingly bright pink suit, with Randall inside. After the initial shock settled that he'd actually gone through with the outfit choice, it registered that Angela was beside him.

"Randall!" Hershel clasped hands with the fashion disaster (who had also slicked back his red hair for the occasion) while Claire happily greeted his partner.

"Angela, it's good to see you! You look lovely!"

Hershel paused to appreciate the fact that she _did_ look lovely. She also wore a red, knee-high dress, but it gave off a very different impression than Claire's. Hers was a mature ruby red, with gold embroidered patterns on the shoulders and up the left side, shining the same color as her curled hair in the light. Black tights and heels contrasted the bold colors nicely, and valuable-looking gold earrings (probably gifted to her from Randall) drew attention to her flawless makeup and already pretty face.

"Doesn't she, though?" Randall asked rhetorically, grinning and putting an arm around his girlfriend. "The bell of the ball, she is!"

"Randall…" Angela started, but Hershel cut her off.

"You are a very beautiful young lady, Angela. You deserve the praise," he stated with a gentle smile. "Are you two headed to the dance floor?"

"Well, we didn't want to show off too early," Randall replied with a grin, "but after this song, absolutely. Guess we can't keep them waiting forever, eh? We're going to show them what real dancing looks like!"

"Is that so?" Claire asked, a twinkle in her eye. "Well, I very much look forward to seeing you out there, then." With a confident grin, she once again grabbed Hershel's hand— he noticed a lot of his companions seemed to have that habit— and lead him over to the dance floor. He sighed internally, knowing there was no way out this time.

"Claire, I, er, feel that it's only fair to warn you—"

Claire glanced up with a look of interest.

"Well, I— that is— I'm not the best at dancing," Hershel spat out. "Certainly not the kind of partner someone like you deserves."

And it was true. He may have practiced for weeks on end with Angela with Randall as an overseer, and even reached a somewhat competent level of skill, but Hershel was still nowhere close to either of his tutors. And if he were completely honest, he felt a little sick to his stomach that Claire was stuck with him.

"Oh. My. Goodness." The lady-to-be put a hand over her mouth.

Hershel tiled his head in confusion. "Pardon?"

"You're _adorable."_

He didn't know what he'd been expecting to hear, but it certainly wasn't that. He felt his face start to heat up.

"I'm… er…"

"Adorable," she repeated. "Dancing isn't about skill, it's about having fun. And you know I would never have agreed to come with you if I didn't think you were the perfect partner for me. So stop being so negative about yourself and let's join the party!"

While Hershel tried to come up with a response to that, he felt himself pulled onto the dance floor and into the movement of students. He remembered a story his mother had told him about her and his father's wedding— how there had been so much happening and so many emotions that it went by in a blur, and even now she could hardly remember anything specific about it. He felt like he might be starting to understand that story a little more.

The dancing actually went okay, although Hershel still made mistakes from time to time and apologized for them profusely. (He had no doubt in his mind that the accursed butterflies in his stomach were at least partially to blame for the blunders.) The pair passed by Randall and Angela on the dance floor a few times, and each time they did someone waved a hello or shot a knowing wink or made some kind of comment about one pair being better dancers than the other. (Claire was responsible for a surprising number of the last option.) As the night went on, the crowd of people grew, until it was somewhat stuffy inside and the chaperones actually opened some of the doors to let in the cool air. Snacks got eaten, paper leaves got kicked around until they had to be thrown away, and groups of dateless friends hung out near the entrance and flirted with the singles who walked in. And it was sometime late into the event that a conversation Hershel never expected happened, after apologizing for what was at _least_ the twentieth time that night.

"I'm so sorry about back there, I didn't mean—"

"Hershel."

"R-right, no more apologizing, sorry…"

Claire chuckled softly as Hershel slapped his forehead, swinging his legs back and forth in the crisp Fall air. After the young Layton had accidentally stepped on Claire's toes one too many times, the pair had decided to take a walk outside around the school grounds (a few other couples were doing the same to cool off) and eventually took a seat on one of the wood benches.

"You know," Claire said with a smile, "you're the most polite gentleman I've ever met."

It wasn't the first time she'd given that compliment. A while back, when Hershel was just holding open the door for his classmates like he always did, she'd told it to him in passing and he'd made the grave mistake of telling Randall. From that day on the title seemed to be branded on him, at least by his closest friends. Not that he minded— he'd always strived to be a gentleman, even if he hadn't really used the word.

"I was wondering," continued Claire, "if you might not be available on Friday to go do something together?"

Hershel looked over with a start. "Oh, u-um, that sounds lovely, but I'm pretty sure Angela already has—"

"Not with Randall and Angela," Claire stated. "Not that I mind going out with them, but half the time we go out as a group Randall ends up dragging you off to do something dangerous while Angela and I are left behind to place bets on whether or not you'll get hurt."

"You place bets on us?!"

Claire giggled. "No, not really. We do worry about you two, though." She sighed, but it was an oddly happy sigh. "Anyhow, we've never gone out just the two of us before. It's about time, don't you think?"

Hershel felt his mouth go dry. "You mean, o-on a date?"

"Yes, Hershel, on a date. Like tonight. But without the rest of the school singing too loudly and spiking the punch."

Hershel hadn't actually noticed anyone singing— he'd probably been distracted by focusing on the dancing or Claire or both— and he'd made sure both he and Claire stayed far away from the punch. But he wasn't thinking about that now.

"On… a date."

"Yes, Hershel."

"With you."

" _Yes,_ Hershel. On Friday."

If anybody had been passing by the green lawn outside the full-to-bursting Gressenheller campus at that moment, they would've seen a very nervous-looking boy with a red tie and noticeably poofy hair sitting panicking on a brown wooden bench. But that was okay. Because by his side was the prettiest young lady the college had ever seen.

And Hershel had a date with her.

* * *

(A/N: I loved Layclaire with all my heart already but then my friend Dawndragon introduced me to _confident sassy take-charge Claire_ and I loved it even more)

(Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the fic! If you made it this far, _please_ leave a review, even if it's short. I have absolutely zero reason to post my writing unless people leave words for my hungry writing soul to consume.)


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